


Let me in through your window

by Thissentiment



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Personal Ghost, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 12:44:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11127240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thissentiment/pseuds/Thissentiment
Summary: Death, as a rule, is the end of everything. The end of the air entering our lungs, the beating of our heart, our passions, our exhaustion and weariness. To be lying in the middle of a cocoon of black and stillness.Lyanna never liked stillness.





	Let me in through your window

**Author's Note:**

> We got a drabble! And it's translated!  
> It's good? No, but that does not stop us from posting! *cries*  
> Trying to just execute the ideas that just pop into my head.  
> Written under the influence of Kate Bush's Wuthering Heights. Boy, I love this song.
> 
> (please, point to me any mistakes =3 )

 

 

Ned had never given much time to think about death; It aad always seemed to him a too metaphysical topic, made for maesters to discuss. He had always been content to know that it was something definitive and inevitable, where everyone would return to the Old Gods. Now he was fixed on the thought.

 

It had begun with dreams, vivid and in constant repeating. Lya, small and pale, sagging and asking him to promise; the boy crying like a supernatural being while life was bleeding out from the mother's body; and her eyes in a mixture of fear, fever, and dread. They woke him up in the dead of night every time, pulled him out of bed so not to wake the wife who tentatively came to warm his sheets, and set out to wander, sometimes in the study, sometimes in the nursery where Robb and Jon slept.

 

_(He had a vague notion that Catelyn resented these exits, understanding his uneasiness as the lack of the woman who had begotten the bastard boy, if only she knew when she was so right and so wrong at the same time.)_

 

Every time he looked at Jon, for a curse or a blessing, he only saw Lya. Rhaegar and his family of dragons had burned their father and brother to ashes; torn his sister apart from within, but failed to tarnish the boy. His whole appearance was Stark.

 

And then he'd begun to hear the angry howling wind behind the windows. But there was something in the middle of the sound, strange, off-axis.

 

Ned rebuked himself, for that was foolish; something that Old Nan had to worry about. Superstition.

 

He had ignored her again. Well.

 

The dreams did not disappear, the winds continued to roar. Inside them, the scream of woman was constant. Lyanna screamed, screamed, screamed.

 

In the tower.

 

On the road out of Dorne.

 

On the heights of Riverun.

 

In the Godswood.

 

Her bones were in the crypts, next to Father and Brandon, her son under the roof of Winterfell (and he begged the gods for Cat to warm up to the child). In a delirium of insomnia, he had admitted that he no longer knew what Lya wanted anymore. But she did not stop, to the point that Ned resigned himself to her private haunting.

 

Death, as a rule, is the end of everything. The end of the air entering our lungs, of the beating of our heart, of our passions, our exhaustion and weariness. To be lying in the middle of a cocoon of black and stillness.

 

Lyanna never liked stillness.

 


End file.
